


Wild Imagination

by Jamie_Angel



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Evil Plans, F/M, Gang Wars, Hate to Love, Mutant Powers, Renegades AU, Rivals to Lovers, Superheroes, Superpowers, Villains, cardan is INFURIATING, i love him tho, renegades by marissa meyer, sexual tension filled insults and threats, sexy sexy superhero suits, they hate each other but only because they're bad people, why isnt that a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29027268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Angel/pseuds/Jamie_Angel
Summary: Jude and her gang the Shadows absolutely despise their rival gang the Princes.But no one knows Jude is actually infamous assassin Hemlock. So the Shadows devise a plan - take down the Princes from the inside using Jude.(AKA a Renegades (by Marissa Meyer) AU, set during the Age of Anarchy. No superheros, only supervillains)
Relationships: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. Ricochet (Jude)

**Author's Note:**

> my first time writing a fic like this for FOTA. I usually only do human aus, but here we are babes

I’ve never been good with guns. They’re my least favourite weapon – harder to put poison in. Of course, it’s not impossible to put poisons in bullets, it’s just _really_ fiddly.  
  
I shift my weight and readjust my grip on the trigger of the gun. It’s already sticky with the poison that must’ve oozed out of my skin and through the gloves I’m wearing. Another downside of guns – they have a lot of little holes that are hard to clean, meaning only I can use this gun. Guns are a rare commodity that we need, and they can’t just be relegated to one person. But, I do concede, guns are better for this type of job. I can’t exactly challenge the head of The Princes to a sword fight. He’d probably just tell me to drop my weapon, and I would without wanting to.  
  
I scowl into the darkness, though there isn’t anyone there. I hate prodigies with powers like that – ones that take your will away from you. Silver has three people like that in his gang, including himself. In my own humble opinion, he should stop being a coward and hiding behind his power and fight like the rest of us.  
  
A light clicks on in the building opposite from the roof I’m lying on. Into the earpiece in my ear, I whisper, “This is Hemlock. Lights have just come on.”  
  
Even being as quiet as I am, my voice is like a whip-crack in the silent night. It’s unusual for the city to be this silent – there’s usually at least _some_ looting and pillaging. Perhaps people realised that there stopped being valuables in this city in the first year of the Age of Anarchy. Still, it’s a shock to not hear some drunkards getting into a street brawl over who has been squatting in a ratty old apartment the longest.  
  
My older sister Vivi, or Mirage as the world knows her, says, “Oh, goody. Maybe you can get back in time for dinner.”  
  
_Dinner_ will consist of whatever scraps we’ve managed to get in trade for the entirely illegal poisons I provide to the good people of Elfhame. Of course, they’re nothing more than pesticides and cleaning supplies, but people are creative that way. Anything can be used to kill someone if you try hard enough.  
  
“What did you get today, anyway.” I whisper, eager to take my mind off the gruesome mental picture of people being burned by my acids.  
  
“Quite a good haul, actually.” Says a new voice. Ink, also known as Heather, is Vivi’s girlfriend. They’re the only people in our gang that have dated, but I’ve seen the way Lili looks at Van, and the way Garrett looks at my twin.  
  
“Elaborate, Ink.”  
  
I can almost hear her roll her eyes. I smile softly and press the earpiece further into my ear. It’s not hard to hear it, but it’s just one of those thing that always feels like it’s about to fall out. Heather says, “Well, we actually managed to get fresh meat. The Butcher managed to find a – what’s it called? Is it just called a group? – Well, he managed to find a bunch of rabbits. We bought four.”  
  
The Butcher is this prodigy who can kill anything with a touch. It’s a scary power, but the guys actually rather nice if you pay his prices.  
  
“Four?” I ask, keeping my voice low, but nothing can stop the note of awe and wistfulness that colours my tone.  
  
Heather laughs, “Yeah, four. And we managed to find an un-looted box of tinned peaches, so we have dessert as well.”  
  
“Damn, I want to kill this guy extra quick so I can get home and eat. I’m starved.”  
  
A voice behind me says, “Kill who, Hemlock? Not me, surely. You wouldn’t be that stupid, would you?”  
  
I roll onto my back in a flash, sitting up quickly. I’m on my feet in less than five seconds, and he seems surprised. The _he_ in question, is Silver. I didn’t get the name until Vivi said that it was (and I quote) “like he was going for silver-tongued but thought that was a bit of a mouthful.”  
  
Silver doesn’t actually wear silver, which is another odd thing about him. He has this black domino mask obscuring his eyes, and his suit is fully black – well it’s more _gear_ than a suit. It’s a pair of tight pants and a black t-shirt, with a gold chain around his neck. He has a Wild West-style gun holstered on his hip, though I’ve never actually heard of him using it. He has this loosely curled black hair that always falls in front of his hair in fights, which is impractical. I have this hazy memory of my twin sister Taryn looking at an old gossip magazine before the Age of Anarchy. If those were still around, this guy would definitely be on the cover of one of them. His entire get-up seems more suited for going out on a semi-casual date, not being a “villain”.  
  
So, in short, he makes me want to vomit.  
  
I sneer at him, forgetting that he can’t see my mouth behind the moulded metal mask that covers the bottom of my face. Instead, I let the mockery colour tone when I speak, “I mean, who else would I be here to kill? You’re the only one worth my time.”  
  
In my ear, Vivi’s cautious voice says, “Hemlock? Who are you talking to?”  
  
I reach up and turn her voice off. My hand hovers over the button Liliver recently installed – one that washes loud white noise into my ears so I can’t be influenced by his words. We learned that his power only works when you can physically hear the words he’s saying. We only found this out because some deaf kid escaped his clutches. It was rather funny to watch.  
  
He grins. Without being able to see his eyes, it’s a deeply disturbing sight. It makes him look manic. “I think that, in this situation, you’re the one not worth _my_ time.”  
  
I click down on the white noise button. The sound washes over me. His mouth continues to move, but I only hear static and rain noses. I grin behind my mask. It worked. I’ll have to tell Lili, she’ll be ecstatic. Now, though, I need to kick this dude’s ass.  
  
When I speak, my voice sounds funny, the sound echoing of my own skull, sounding loud and stuffed full of cotton. “I hate people that talk too much.”  
  
His smile falters for half a second – that’s the moment I use to strike. I charge at him and send the butt of my gun into his forehead. He stumbles backwards. His mouth is still curved up into his grin. It really is a disconcerting sight – one that I can’t afford to be distracted by. I kick him while he’s down, not letting him have the chance to get steady footing by kicking the thick soles of my boots into his shin.  
  
He falls to the ground, landing on his tailbone. Ouch. That’s got to hurt. I go to kick him again, aiming for his ribs, but his hand shoots out and wraps around my ankle like a vice. With a tug, I’m on the ground as well. I reach into my belt and pull out the poison-coated dagger I keep there for occasions just like this. With no sympathy, I drive the blade into the hand still wrapped around my ankle. He lets go with a cry of pain so powerful that I can hear it through the white noise buzzing in my head.  
  
He nurses his bleeding hand and looks at me with what I’m sure is a glower under the mask.  
  
I get to my feet and look down at him. He reaches into his holster, but I seem to have stabbed his dominant hand. He spits something out – a curse, probably – but doesn’t follow me as I walk leisurely to the edge of the building. I turn off the white noise, and he still doesn’t do anything to stop me. I risk a glance over the edge, only to see the inked net ready to catch me when I jump – thanks, Heather- and give him a mocking two fingered salute. “See you later, Silver.”  
  
And I jump.  
  
___  
  
When I get back to the tunnels, its very nearly pandemonium. Vivi barrels up to me, followed by Heather and The Ghost. Vivi has her hands wrapped around my biceps when she all but yells, “What happened? Did you get him?”  
  
I discard my gloves and look pointedly at her hands. Only when she removes them do I speak, “No, I did not get him. If anything, he got me.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“He turned up. On the rooftop, I mean. Thanks for the net, by the way.” This last part is directed at Heather, who nods, her bright pink hair bobbing around her.  
  
“What do you mean, he turned up?”  
  
“I _mean_ that he turned up. How else do you want me to put it? Silver was on the roof. I kicked his ass. Speaking of which, I need to talk to The Bomb. Have you seen her?”  
  
Vivi looks like she wants to ask more questions, but Garrett puts a hand on her shoulder. By that, I mean he _tried_ to put a hand on her shoulder. Vivi shivered when his pale hand passed right through her. He pulled his hand back, looking baleful. “Sorry, Mirage. Anyway, Hemlock’s had a rough night. She should get some first. The Bomb’s in her car.”  
  
My car, he’s referring to the old train cars we all use as a home/headquarters. We all have one train car, apart from Heather and Vivi, who use an old platform as their shared bedroom, and then theres the one we use as a meeting room of sorts.  
  
I nod to Garrett and step away from my sister. They all disperse to do whatever it was they were doing before my arrival. Taking off my mask, I start to follow the old train tracks down to the even older train that serves as the only place I’ve ever called home. I finally come to Liliver’s car. It’s pretty easy to identify – what, with all the charred bits, the boarded up windows, and the ever-present smell of gunpowder.  
  
I raise my fist, but the door flies open before I can knock. Liliver is an absolutely tiny woman. I was taller than her when I was twelve. She has dark skin, white hair and a permanently manic gleam in her dark eyes. I asked her once why her hair is white, since we don’t have ready access to hair in the tunnels, and I’d never seen her roots grow out. She told me that she made the mistake of letting me climb on her head when I was a baby, and the toxins in my skin had permanently effected her roots. Then, she had laughed and said “It’s the stress.”  
  
I could never tell which one was the real story, and everyone else refused to tell me the one time I asked.  
  
“Did it work?” She asks, grabbing the front of my shirt and yanking me into her carriage.  
  
“The white noise? Yeah it did.” I tap the back of her hand once in an indication to let me go. She does, but the front of my shirt has wrinkled in the vague shape of her fist.  
  
“I knew it!” She turns back to her workbench and starts tinkering. Now, she may be the person that makes all our gadgets, but that’s not why she’s a prodigy. I mean, her nickname – the Bomb – might give it away, but she can make explosions of any size and shape appear in just a thought.  
  
“Wait.” She straightens up and levels a glare at me. “How did you find out?”  
  
I pick up an old tissue and rub at the poison accumulating on the back of my neck – the tissue comes away warm, slightly burnt, and cloudy white – and look at the floor, “Silver was on the rooftop. I don’t know how he knew I was there, but he taunted me for like a minute. I turned on the white noise when he tried to do his controlling thing, but he couldn’t. Then I stabbed him.”  
  
She nods along and returns to her work. “Interesting...”  
  
I wait a minute to see if she’ll elaborate on that point, but she doesn’t. “Heather’s making food soon, I think.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves a hand at me, not looking up, “I’ll be there later.”  
  
When she says _later_ she means _when all the foods cold_. She’ll find something wrong with the white noise ear buds sooner or later, and spend the rest of the evening correcting it, even if it’s only a miniscule problem.  
  
I step out of Liliver’s carriage and just stand there, not sure what to do. I mean, I should probably clean my clothes but that’s so incredibly _dull_.  
  
“Jude!”  
  
I’m spared the effort of deciding what to do by my twin sister. I think Taryn chooses to look identical to me, as some kind of fucked up sister-bonding exercise that both of hate. She can manipulate her voice and appearance to her will – that’s how she got her name, Imposter – so she doesn’t _have_ to look identical to me.  
  
I turn on my heel to face her, “What do you want?”  
  
She flushes at my unfriendly tone, “I just wanted to know how the mission went.”  
  
She’s wearing a new dress. It’s not a fancy thing, long and flowy and made of sapphire blue cotton, but she definitely didn’t own it before today. Which meant she bought it at the market with the money _I_ brought in with my poisons. There’s a cruel part of my brain that doesn’t want her to have nice things. I can already feel the spite bubbling in my chest.  
  
“It went just swell, Taryn.” My hand is already leaching toxins; a side effect of my simmering anger, “I didn’t get to shoot Silver, and he tried to beat me up.”  
  
I start to walk away, pausing only to pat her condescendingly on the shoulder, leaving a bleached white handprint on the sleeve of her dress, effectively ruining it. She’ll never be able to wear the dress in public without at least one person making fun of her for letting a poisoned-skinned get that close to her. My spiteful anger turns to content guiltlessness.


	2. I was nearly killed, but no big deal (Cardan)

I shed my mask as soon as I’m through the door of the dilapidated brownstone that serves as a home – of sorts – for my family. Family? Actually, work colleagues is more like it. The only person actually related to me in this building is Balekin, and that’s a bit of a _situation_.  
  
Out of all the gangs, we fared off the best. A lot of the others live in shitty old apartment buildings or underground tunnels or other unsavoury places. We may be the smallest gang, but we’ve also got one of the nicest, mostly un-destroyed places in the city. It belonged to my family before they all died, leaving only Balekin and I, plus my three friends, to live here.   
  
“Cardan? Is that you?” Nicasia’s bubbly, slightly distorted voice comes from down the hall.   
  
“Nope. I’m actually a murderer here to slaughter you all.” I yell back to her, rounding the corner into the living room, cradling my still bleeding hand in the other, not bleeding hand.  
  
Nicasia and Locke are sat on the couch. Well, Locke is sat on the couch, half-heartedly reading a torn paperback book; Nicasia is sitting cross-legged in her usual sphere of water, entertaining a fish that she get from who knows where. Nicasia may be able to control all water, but she’s basically a fish herself. She can’t survive without being in water, or she dries up.  
  
Locke gives me a smile when he sees me, “We thought you might be that girl from the roof, here to kill the rest of us after she disposed of you.”  
  
I grimace and hold out my stabbed hand for him to see. “She’s good with a knife. Also, fun fact, I couldn’t affect her.”  
  
Locke tilts his head to the side, “Is that true?”  
  
“You know I don’t lie.” I say, heading to the kitchen for bandages. I call back to him, “But, yeah, it’s the truth. I told her to leave and she attacked me.”  
  
“Did you see her face?” Nicasia asks.  
  
I return, bandages in hand, and settle on the couch opposite Locke. “No, she had a mask over her mouth and nose, and her eyes were shadowed by her hood.”  
  
I think I’d remember if I saw her face. The most I saw was the end of a long braid over her right shoulder, the glint in her eyes as she reached up to her head – doing something. What, I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with why I couldn’t affect her. She’s not deaf, because she heard me when I first spoke on the rooftop-  
  
“Cardan?” Nicasia interrupts my train of thought.  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
“I asked if you knew what kind of power she has.”  
  
I consider this for a moment. She didn’t display anything extraordinary, like flying or shooting fire out of her palms. Maybe she was immune to other people’s powers – that would explain why I couldn’t control her.  
  
I wrap the bandages around my hand without cleaning the wound; that can wait until I see Stitchwork, a healer who deals with injuries just like this. “I don’t know. She didn’t do anything that would display a specific power. She seemed very handy with the weapons she used. Why do you think she has power if she never displayed anything?”  
  
Nicasia laughs. It’s an odd sound, and little bubbles rise to the top of her sphere. “Locke doesn’t want to admit that he hates the idea of a normal getting the jump on us.”  
  
Locke tried to swat at Nicasia’s arm, but he just ended up flinging water around the living room. I watched for a few seconds while Nicasia retaliated by controlling the water around her to form a hand giving him the middle finger. He grimaced and made a big show of rolling up his sleeves, plunging his arm into the water and wriggling around until he got a grip on Nic’s arm. All he ended up doing was gently flicking her forearm, which made her burst into hysterical giggles.  
  
I’d been watching them do...whatever this was for a _while_ now. Ever since Nicasia and I broke up. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure we broke up (mutually, I assure you) because Nic wanted to show Locke that she was single. Which is fine – it’s _amazing_ , actually, because that way shes fawning over someone else. It is, however, incredibly annoying.  
  
I clear my throat, “Locke? Is that true?”  
  
It’s nearly the same question he asked me earlier. Except, I have a reason to ask. Locke’s nickname isn’t the Prince of Lies for nothing. His power is that he can tell you a lie, whether it’s a lie to you or him, and then you’ll believe it, and act on it. It doesn’t sound as impressive as it is. I personally think that he’s part of the reason the Princes survived this long. The other parts, of course, being me and my older brother.  
  
“I’ll admit to nothing.” Locke says, withdrawing his hands from Nicasia’s water sphere and wiping it on the couch.  
  
“So it is true. Good to know.” I flex my injured hand and wince as pain shoots all the way up my forearm. “I’m heading to bed. Don’t stay up all night, you two.”   
  
I go upstairs with a wink, leaving Nicasia red-faced and Locke looking smug.  
  
___  
  
I’m out of the house first that morning, only bothering to notify my brother of the condition of my wound. He didn’t care, which wasn’t surprising. He just told me to be back before dusk.  
  
I make my way across the constantly rubble-filled streets and down a back alley. Stitchwork is the best surviving medic around, but his methods were... _something_ , so he practiced in a shitty old clinic in an even shittier part of town.   
  
I pushed open the door, which creaked on its hinges, and stepped onto the actually rather clean linoleum. I’m the only one here. That’s probably good, because I _really_ don’t feel like telling everyone to clear out – actually, that sounds rather appealing. The only other person in the waiting room is the receptionist, who smiles broadly at me.   
  
“Cardan Greenbriar? Stitchwork will be with you in,” her eyes glaze over very slightly, “thirteen seconds.”  
  
“Thanks,” I lean in to read her name tag, “Kelly.”  
  
She flushes, but gestures to one of the plastic chairs. I don’t sit. I have, what, ten seconds at most? I don’t even have chance to lean against the wall before Stitchwork is coming out of his office, talking idly to a girl around my age, with long brown hair and dangerous eyes.   
  
“Ah, Cardan.” He says, gesturing for me to come over. I raise an eyebrow, but go to stand in front of the girl.  
  
When she sees me her entire face shutters closed. Whatever easy conversation she was having before has stuttered to a stop as she glares at me. She must’ve heard about me. I do admit, I am rather infamous.  
  
“Hello there.” I say, offering her my uninjured hand, “Cardan Greenbriar.”  
  
“I know who you are.”  
  
“My reputation precedes me.”  
  
She doesn’t take my outstretched hand, but her gaze narrows in on my injured hand. Flatly, she asks, “What happened?”  
  
Stitchwork follows her gaze and frowns.  
  
I lift my hand, not really sure why, “Got stabbed.”  
  
She raises an eyebrow. There’s no emotion in her eyes. “You got stabbed?”  
  
“My line of work is very dangerous.”  
  
“Yeah, I bet.” Her agreement sounded more derogatory than anything else.  
  
The corner of my mouth curls into a smile. Before I can say anything, she has her gloved hands on the edge of the bandages. She looks at me and I shrug, so she unwinds the bloodstained cloth and looks closer.   
  
Stitchwork cocks his head to the side. “How long have you had this wound? It’s already infected. I told you last time to come to me as soon as-”  
  
“It’s not infected, doc.” The girl interrupts. She points one finger to the edge of the clean stab mark going through my hand. Now that I look at it, it doesn’t look good, but not like any infection I’ve seen before. “Look there.”  
  
Stitchwork also leans over my hand. “Oh dear. Hemlock, do you mind helping with this? Poison extraction isn’t my speciality.”  
  
The girl – Hemlock – purses her lips and looks around the clinic, as if she’s afraid of being spotted. “Sure, whatever.”  
  
She drops my hand and moves into Stitchwork’s office. It’s the nicest (and cleanest) part of the neighbourhood, with sleek technology he’s somehow managed to keep to himself and white plaster walls. There are no windows, meaning the fluorescents overhead the only source of light.   
  
Stitchwork pats a chair, which I sit on, and then indicates me to stretch my hand out for both him and Hemlock to see. He says, “Hemlock is a poison-skinned. We recently found out she can also remove poison from people, if she concentrates hard enough.”  
  
That explains the gloves. Poison-skinned people leach a unique poison from their skin, and they’re usually not very good to be touched by – I’ve seen it happen. The Veil’s – an old gang that has been stamped out – had two of them, one who burned the skin of his victims, and another who could touch people, because their poison had to be ingested. Judging from her gloves, Hemlock’s particular brand of poison was the do-not-touch kind.  
  
“So she’s going to do that, and then you’re gonna fix-up my hand?”  
  
“Yes, that’s right.”  
  
“Hurry up then, I haven’t got all day.”  
  
“This will hurt.” Hemlock warns, but she doesn’t look she cares much.   
  
“Lay it on me.”  
  
She raises one eyebrow and discards one of her gloves. Her hand it coated in a milky white film. Her eyelids flutter closed gently, exposing the delicate lavender colour that can only be natural. She moves her hand to hover my own. Her fingers clench. The poison starting to remove itself from my hand is excruciating. I can feel it inching through my veins and pulling itself from muscle tissue. I swallow against a groan of pain, refusing to show weakness in front of this uncaring girl.  
  
Eventually, _finally,_ she seems done. The poison is suspended in the air, colourless and writhing. Stitchwork holds out a glass jar and Hemlock manipulates the poison into settling at the bottom of it.  
  
“Lovely.” Stitchwork says, corking the glass jar and setting it down on a nearby counter. “You can leave, Ju-“ he coughs, “Hemlock. Thank you for helping me out.”  
  
“No problem doc’.” Hemlock pulls her gloves on.  
  
Before she can leave – without thinking – I grab her wrist. She pulls back, and I let her (I don’t doubt that she could _make_ me let go, but that’s beside the point) but I have her attention, which is good.  
  
Putting power into my words, I say, “Drop by the Princes house soon. You’d make a valuable member of our team.”  
  
Her eyes glaze over slightly, a vague milky sheen over the sun-through-honey colour of her irises. She blinks and the film clears. She swallows, and then scowls. “I hate people like you.”  
  
This doesn’t surprise me. “Care to elaborate?”  
  
“People who think they can get whatever they want, just because they’ve got some fancy ass power.” She takes off her glove and brandishes her hand at me. “You aren’t the only one who can do weird shit, you’re just the only one of the two of us who has to go showing it off.”  
  
I like this girl. I also hate this girl. “You act like I care what you think of me.”  
  
“I think that you care what everyone thinks of you.”   
  
And with that, she leaves, slamming the office door behind. I stare after her. She had the coldest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’ll occupy my mind for a while after this, I bet. I’m at war with myself, part of me hates the fact that I’ve asked her to come meet the rest of my family, part of me loves it. If we induct her in, I’ll be able to see those cold brown eyes every day.


	3. Meeting (Jude)

I keep going over the words. _Drop by the Prince’s house soon. You’d make a valuable member of our team_. Every time I think of his stupid voice, I feel a nearly irresistible tug west, toward that giant mansion that sits in that derelict neighbourhood.   
  
It makes me sick.  
  
Silver has all that power, and he just uses it freely. Uncaringly. Without a care for who might feel the effect of his words.   
  
Technically, though, he only told me to stop by the mansion. He never said I had to go inside, nor did he say I had to try out for his little gang.   
  
I get to my feet, putting a cork in the vial of insecticide I’ve been working on. I’ll go over to the house, but I’ll only walk past it. Just so his words stop bugging me, stop trying to make me go over to that house, if you can even call it that.   
  
I navigate my way through the subway tunnels without running into anyone. They won’t ask where I’m going anyway. They’re plenty used to me just coming and going whenever I want to. The stairs are crumbling, so I’m careful where I stand as I make my way into the daylight. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I very nearly miss the last step.   
  
The streets around here are nearly all deserted, anyway, so there’s no one to watch me stumble as the stone shifts beneath my feet. I hop onto the road, kicking a plastic bottle out of my way and sending it skittering down the street. When I walk, I stick to the shadows. Just because no one knows that I’m Hemlock, or that I exist, doesn’t mean that can’t see the direction I’ve come from and make an educated guess.   
  
Not that I would call it an _educated_ guess, based on the sheer lack of educated people here at all. I mean, it’s kind of hard to get educated after all the schools were practically destroyed and everyone had to pull their kids out in case they were prodigies. Prodigy children were always in danger. Gangs after that particular child’s ability had no reservations about just _taking_ the child.  
  
The pull in my chest grows harder to resist as I make my way west. I pass by the squalor on the streets and into what was once a gated community. The fact that all these houses are just...standing there, rotting, while I’ve seen whole families pressed into tiny one bedroom apartments.   
  
The Prince’s mansion is the most lavish, by far. It has all this Grecian architecture, with these tall, looming arches. The lawn is perfectly manicured, but I don’t doubt that there are traps aplenty hidden beneath the deceptively green grass.  
  
With the feeling in my chest now sated, I feel entirely ready to go back to the tunnels. I pivot on my heel, but freeze when a voice yells down from the house. “Hemlock!”  
  
I freeze, my entire body tensing up to run. But I don’t. A thought occurred to me. I spin and face Silver. His face isn’t covered by his mask, like that time at the clinic. I can’t see his black eyes from where I stand, but I’ve seen them before. Completely dark, like they don’t have pupils.   
  
We make eye contact. My entire body is screaming to _run_ , but Silver is slowly making his way down the driveway, ambling cockily down the gravel path as if he has all the time in the world. It infuriates me, but I pay close attention to the way he walks – carefully, like he’s avoiding certain places. I try as hard as I can to commit those to memory, since they are very clearly where the traps are placed.  
  
When he’s in front of me, he smiles widely, showing off perfect white teeth. “I knew you would come.”  
  
“I didn’t exactly have a choice.” I snarl.  
  
 _Run, run, run_.  
  
He laughs, throwing his head back. The sun catches on his black hair, making it shine like an oil slick. “Yes, how silly of me to forget. I’m just surprised you didn’t wait longer.”  
  
My hand drifts to my belt, where my knife hangs on my hip. His eyes follow the movement. “I didn’t have anything better to do.”  
  
“I hope you aren’t planning to stab me with that. I would _hate_ to have to make you set it down.”  
  
I keep my hand gripped on the hilt of the knife. “If you do that, I’ll gut you like a fish.”  
  
He laughs again, but the sound grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh I don’t think you could do that.”   
  
I smile, but it’s more of a show of teeth – a snarl. “Don’t try me.”  
  
He smiles back, a cruel twist of the edges of his mouth. It makes him look as though he’s judging me. He probably is. He turns on his heel and starts walking back to the mansion. Without power, he calls over his shoulder, “Come, come. Everyone else wants to meet you.”  
  
I grit my teeth, but follow him up the garden path, putting my feet where his were, careful to not spring any traps. When we get to the front door, he sends an impressed look my way. “Observant.”  
  
“Or maybe you’re not as good as you think.”  
  
His mouth curls at the edges. “ _Maybe_.”  
  
The door swings open. On the other side, gazing down at me, is Undersea, sat cross-legged in her globe of water. She sticks a hand out of the water. I take it quickly and shake it. Her skin is already dry and flaky by the time she’s pulled it back into her safe haven of water.   
  
“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but that would be a lie.” She says sweetly. Her voice is distorted by the water.  
  
“I’m not exactly _thrilled_ to see you either.”  
  
She moves out of the way from the door, allowing me and Silver to enter the room. Well, _room_ isn’t quite the word to cover it. It’s a long hallway the size of two entire subway cars pushed together. There’s a broken chandelier in the corner, and the Persian rug has a thick layer of dust that looks completely set into the fabric.   
  
This, yet again, makes me sick to my stomach.  
  
My muscles are coiled to bolt, but I walk through the hall with Silver in front of me and Undersea behind me. I don’t stop to take in the crown moulding or the big, splintered mirror on the wall. The mere fact that I’m inside the Prince’s headquarters is a massive deal. I can report everything back to the Roach, and he can formulate a plan from there.  
  
The large hallway leads into a nearly intact living room. There are three leather couches, of a rich ox-blood colour. Sat on them is Deceit, Massacre and the Prince of Lies. All the thoughts I have of running have been elevated. I’m already on the balls of my feet, ready to book it. These are three of the most dangerous prodigies, not counting Undersea and Silver. Deceit can worm his way into your thoughts and make you think that his thoughts are your own. Massacre can amp up negative emotions with skin to skin contact. The Prince of Lies can tell you any lie and you’ll believe and act on it.  
  
The Prince of Lies leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Hemlock, is it?”  
  
I nod stiffly. My hands in their gloves have begun to sweat, which isn’t good because my sweat is literally poison, and it _will_ leech through the gloves.   
  
“And why do you want to join us?”  
  
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t.”  
  
He laughs once, loud and incredulously. “ _Silver_ , have you forced this poor girl to come meet us?”  
  
I don’t have to turn to know that he’s grinning. My elbow itches to ram itself into his ribs. But I don’t, I stand tall and stare down the Prince of Lies. He gets to his feet and comes to stand in front of me. He has deep auburn hair and eyes that look like they could start a lot of trouble. With one pale finger, he brushes a strand of my hair behind me ear.  
  
I have to suppress a shiver. There’s something predatory in his expression that makes me _intensely_ uncomfortable.  
  
When he speaks, it’s not to me. “I have no qualms about her joining.”  
  
“Good.” Silver says.   
  
The Prince of Lies offers me a hand. “My name’s Locke.”  
  
I look at his hand pointedly until he drops it. I don’t make a habit of skin-to-skin contact, and as much as I’d like to burn all the skin of his hand, that probably wouldn’t make a good first impression.   
  
“Do you have a name?” Locke asks.  
  
“Jude.” I tell him through gritted teeth.   
  
“That’s a lovely name.” He all but purrs. I want to punch him in his stupid face. Was _now_ really the time to try and get in my pants?  
  
“Locke.” Silver says warningly.   
  
Locke shrugs and takes a step back. Deceit comes up next. He just looks me up and down, then returns to his seat. Part of me wonders why he had to get up in the first place.  
  
Massacre just shrugs, not even looking at me.  
  
Silver puts a hand on my shoulder. I immediately jerk it away. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t try and lay a hand on me again. “Do you have any family? You should probably tell them that you’ll be moving in here.”  
  
“I think I’d prefer to continue living with my sisters.”   
  
He angles his head to the side. “Why?”  
  
“I’m the only thing standing between them and destitution, so forgive me for not wanting them to starve.”  
  
It’s not entirely true. Taryn and Vivi could fend for themselves if I left, but its imperative to my plan that I continue to see them.  
  
Silver puts his hands up in mock surrender, his smile growing ever wider. “Whatever you want. Want me to walk back with you?”  
  
I narrow my eyes, unsure why he would ask that. “I know the way, thanks.”  
  
And with that, I turn my back on them and leave. Sure, the whole turning my back on them thing probably wasn’t the smartest move, based on how powerful they all are. But that’s beside the point. It’s all about confidence.   
  
___  
  
“So you see how this could be worked to our advantage?” I ask Vivi.  
  
She leans forward excitedly, “Totally.”  
  
“I don’t know.” Taryn chimes in, chewing on her bottom lip. “What if they need, like, personal information.”  
  
I roll my eyes at her. “We’ll obviously construct a fake life for fake me. Why can’t use my last name, because mom and dad were pretty famous.”  
  
I don’t have to say _before they died_ , but it’s heavily implied. Eva and Justin Duarte’s death was big news at the time – they’re what spurred my adopted dad, Madoc, to start the Age of Anarchy.  
  
“And they can’t know you live _here_.” Vivi breaks the awkward silence, gesturing to the Subway tunnels.  
  
“I told them I lived with my sisters.” I say, “So that means they’ll have to see at least one of you. Taryn would be ideal, because she can look however she wants. They already know roughly what you look like, Vivi.”  
  
She nods, “Did you emphasise _sisters,_ plural?”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“Then we can have Liliver come visit you. Or Heather. Or both.”  
  
“There’s only one problem with that, and that is that they’re both a different races.” I point out.  
  
Vivi shrugs. “You could be adopted.”  
  
I go to speak, but pause. “That actually could work.”  
  
“I know, I’m the best.” She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest smugly.  
  
“I never said that.” I say, swatting at her leg, “But, if Taryn also changes herself to look nothing like me, we could sell the idea that we all banded together or something.”  
  
Taryn hums her approval, “I can do that. I also know a guy who can hook us up with some fake documents, if you’ll need them. He can also find us an old apartment that we can live in.”  
  
I let a smile spread over my face. “Let’s take down the Princes.”  
  



	4. The Apartment (Jude)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cardan is a little shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woohoo y'all get multiple updates. funsies.

The apartment that Taryn’s informant gave us the information for is, to put it nicely, the _dumsterfire_ of all apartments. The family that lived here apparently left with none of their furniture, because there are big, plush, dust-covered armchairs facing an empty fireplace, with the mantel decorated in old framed photos of a smiling family.   
  
The kitchen cabinets are open, showing completely bare shelves, long having been looted by desperate people looking to survive. On the windowsill there is a dead vase of flowers, which lends a musty, decaying odour to the whole place.   
  
“Wow.” I say.  
  
Taryn purses her lips and drags her finger over the back of the singular dining chair, leaving a trail through the dust. “We have some work to do.”  
  
“We?” I turn to face her, “I need to visit the Prince’s _every day._ And I have no clue _if_ or _when_ they’ll come around, so we need to be ready at all times.”  
  
Her eyes unfocus. Her features ripple until a short, tanned, blonde girl is standing in front of me wearing Taryn’s clothes. She looks up at me, with chubby cheeks and wide green eyes. “Step one complete.”  
  
I study her new face until I’m convinced it’s nothing like my own. “It’s a start. You’ll need to get Heather and have her draw up some...not dust-covered furniture. And maybe get, like, _everyone_ else to help you clean.”  
  
She sounds annoyed when she speaks next, “Any other demands?”  
  
I lift an eyebrow, “So, you _want_ Silver to find out I’m a spy? You only need to do the front room, anyway. Trust me, none of them are being invited further. Just what the eye can see.”  
  
“I never said that.” She waves a hand at me dismissively, “Just get going.”  
  
___  
  
I knock on the door. It takes a few minutes for anyone to answer. Silver looks annoyed when he opens the door. His face is flushed red and sweat sticks his dark hair to his forehead.  
  
“You’re one of us now. Just walk in.”  
  
I raise an eyebrow at him, shouldering my bag. “Why are you all sweaty?”  
  
He steps out of the doorway and I walk in as confidently as possible, like I own the place. He runs a hand through his hair. “I was sparring with Valerian.”  
  
“Valerian?” I don’t know the name.  
  
“Massacre.”   
  
“Are you going to tell me everyone’s names? You already know mine.” I say as we stroll leisurely down the old hallway.  
  
“Whatever you want, darling.” He pauses, laughing when I shoot a glare at him. “Well, Undersea’s name is Nicasia. You know Locke and Valerian. My brother, Balekin, is Deceit.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes tracing the features of my face. “What’s your last name?”  
  
“Is that any of your business?” I snap.  
  
“It is, actually. You’re a Prince.”  
  
I sigh, my mind whirring to come up with a fake name quickly. “My _full name_ is Jude Eva McClain.”  
  
He grins at me. “Cardan Greenbriar.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“That’s my name.”  
  
“Good.” I nod awkwardly. “Now I don’t have to keep referring to you with something as obnoxious as Silver.”  
  
He presses a hand to his chest like an old lady. “You wound me.”  
  
“No,” I say, the side of my mouth quirking upwards, “If I wanted to wound you, I would’ve done so already.”  
  
“Is that so?” He asks, trying to sound dangerous, even though I can hear the laugh in his voice.   
  
He leads me up a grand staircase and down another wide hallway, with a painted over window at the end. There are doors lining the walls, each with a nameplate nailed to it. I try to read it as I walk by. _Undersea. Deceit. Silver. Massacre. Prince of Lies_. Silver stops at the end of the hall. The nameplate on this one reads _Hemlock_.  
  
Silver turns the knob and allows me to look into the dimly lit room. I poke my head into it, making out the vague shapes of a bed, armchairs and a desk.  
  
“I know you said you aren’t going to sleep in there, but you can still put whatever you want in there. If you ever get annoyed with your sister, or have a fight with your boyfriend, you can sleep here whenever.”  
  
I arch an eyebrow at him, “Thanks but no thanks. I don’t get tired of my sisters-” _Lie_. “- and I don’t have a boyfriend.” _Truth_.  
  
Both his eyebrows shoot up, “Pretty thing like you?”  
  
I scoff and walk into the room, feeling about the wall for a lights witch. Eventually my fingers close over a dimmer switch. I turn it until it’s at full brightness. The room has walls that were probably once white, but have yellowed with age, with black mould creeping in from the north wall. The bed in the centre of the room is undoubtedly bigger and more plush than I’ve ever slept with. There’s an oak desk in the corner, on it a cluster of half-melted candles. A dresser stands in the opposite corner, doors open and inside empty. A bookshelf full of water-damaged books stands by the wall, and, facing it, are two brown leather armchairs.  
  
I nod and cross the room, setting my bad down on the desk and drawing back one of the heavy drapes, getting a good look at the perfectly landscaped garden. I unzip my bag, but pause before taking out any of my stuff. Silver – _Cardan­­_ – is still lingering by the door, I can tell, so I turn on my heel and face him. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”  
  
“No.” He says simply, “But I am rather curious about what you have in that there bag of yours.”  
  
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. I reach into my bag and take out a series of glass phials all filled with different poisons, a notebook, and a mini distillery I had the Bomb make for me a couple years ago. “You happy?”  
  
“Not exactly.” He says, and with that he turns and leaves, closing my door behind him.  
  
___  
  
I shoulder my bag, the lightness of it making my shoulder feel off-kilter. The desk is still cluttered with empty poison phials and the odd ripped out piece of ink-covered paper. In the closet I’ve hung up a spare version of my Hemlock outfit. It’s not much to be leaving behind, but it still feels like _too much_.  
  
Still, I walk toward my door and try not to let it phase me. The sun has already set. It’s dangerous for me to be walking home this late. Not that anyone on the street could overcome me. All the same, I keep one hand resting on my dagger as I make my way to the front door.  
  
A hand on my shoulder freezes me in my tracks, but only for a second. I swing around, my dagger already out. The hand lets go. Silver takes a step back, looking at me with humour filled surprise.   
  
“Oh, it’s you.” I say, and slide my dagger back through the loop on my belt.  
  
“Yes, it’s me, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try and slice me open.” He says pleasantly, matching my pace as I walk to the front door.   
  
“Is there a reason you’re following me?”  
  
“I’m going to walk you home.” He says. It’s not a question.  
  
“Cocky, aren’t you?” I yank open the door and fix him with a glare. “What makes you think that you’re going to do that?”  
  
“It’s unsafe for someone to walk around at night.”  
  
I laugh humourlessly, “I’m not going to get _attacked_ , Sil- Cardan.”  
  
“Perhaps not.” He takes a step outside, breathing in deeply, “But if I’m with you, no one will try.”  
  
I have to school my face into indifference, not allowing the panic slowly seeping through me to show on my face. Taryn and Heather better have thrown something together real quick.   
  
I sigh heavily and look at him, pulling my hood up. Something akin to confusion flashes across his face for the briefest of seconds, before his usual cocky smile is fixed back in place. “Fine. You can walk me home, since you want to _so badly_.”  
  
We make our way through the city in silence. He was right, no one even tried to come at me, but I kept a wary hand on my dagger the whole time, and my gloves off.   
  
Cardan keeps a safe distance away from me, but still stays close enough that it’s obvious that he’s with me. My hood still shadows my face, and he has on his domino mask, just to make it obvious who he is.  
  
We take a turn onto the street where I “live”. He looks around at the broken fences and the boarded up windows with obvious distaste. I stop in front of my building and say, “This is me. You can leave.”  
  
He smiles, all cruelty, sharp angles and oil slick eyes. “I don’t think so. Invite me up.” His words wash over me and I’m overcome with the _overwhelming_ need to invite him into the apartment. I grind my teeth and glare at him, but unlock the main door and let him follow me up the three flights of stairs.  
  
When we reach my door, I open it just a crack, so he can’t see, and call in, “Hey, I’m home!”  
  
Taryn, in her disguise, rips open the door. The room behind her is clean and relatively nice looking. Her eyes widen at the sight of Cardan behind me. If I didn’t know her so well, I’d be fooled. She’s always been good at pretending.  
  
“You gonna let me in?” I ask, and, without waiting for an answer, I barge past her and dump my bag on the nearest armchair. “Where are the others?”  
  
“I’m down here!” Heather’s voice comes from the hallway. She appears a second later, looking about as different from me as she can possibly get, with her pink hair and brown skin and her arms full of paper. She gives me a quick hug then reels on Cardan, still standing just outside of the threshold. “What are you doing here.”  
  
“You’re as friendly as your sister.” Cardan tells her, waving off her question. He steps forward and Taryn moves out of his way.  
  
“I’m home.” I tell him, moving to look through the kitchen cupboards which, miraculously, actually have food in them. I try my hardest to make the actions look natural, like I’ve spent my entire life doing this very same routine. “You can leave now.”  
  
I throw my hood down and unzip my jacket as Cardan lets himself into my new apartment.   
  
“Why don’t you introduce me to your sisters?” He asks as I hang my jacket on a line of coat pegs, which are already full of coats and hats. _When did they have time to put this up?_  
  
“Demanding, aren’t you?” I snap, but jab a finger at Taryn and then Heather, saying the first names that come to mind. “Sophia, Claudia. I don’t think they’re here right now, but there’s also Hailey and Michelle.”  
  
He looks at me. I can’t read his expression. “Small apartment for five girls.”  
  
“It was my parents.”  
  
“ _Your_ parents?”  
  
“I think it’s pretty obvious that we aren’t all blood related. Michelle is my half sister, but the rest of these losers are adopted.”  
  
Heather, or _Claudia_ as she’s now known, swats my arm, “Rude.”  
  
I ignore her and look to Taryn, “Soph, do you know where Michelle and Hailey are?”  
  
She shrugs, “No clue. Michelle said something about looking down in the old subway tunnels or something.”  
  
Cardan tilts his head to the side, “She ought to be careful. The Shadows live in those tunnels.”  
  
I cast him a disparaging look, “Surely they don’t live in _all_ the tunnels? What are you still doing here, anyway?”  
  
Is it just me, or does he look slightly hurt? If he did, he doesn’t now. “You’re going to invite me to dinner.” He lets his power wash over the room.  
  
“Do you want to stay for dinner?” I say, through gritted teeth.  
  
The corner of his lips curls upward, “I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think :)


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